


That darkened over coming years

by Elizabeth Culmer (edenfalling)



Series: Out of Season [4]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Calormen, Family, Family Dynamics, Female-Centric, Fifteen Minute Fic, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Original Character(s), Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 07:56:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/edenfalling/pseuds/Elizabeth%20Culmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the days following Axartha Tarkaan's death, Zardis Tarkheena raises cautions about Shezan's courtship of Ilgamuth.  Tag ficlet to "Out of Season."</p>
            </blockquote>





	That darkened over coming years

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the 6/1/14 [word #189](http://15-minute-ficlets.dreamwidth.org/49104.html) on the [15_minute_ficlets](http://15_minute_ficlets.dreamwidth.org) Dreamwidth community.
> 
> I highly advise reading [Out of Season](http://archiveofourown.org/works/272381) before this story. You will miss a _lot_ of context otherwise.

"O my daughter and O the delight of my heart, I hear that Ilgamuth Tarkaan has offered you perfume."

Shezan looked up from the sleek gray cat on her lap, in whose soft fur and steady heartbeat she had been attempting to bury her thoughts and her grief. It seemed impossible to think of Ilgamuth -- to think of companionship, of the future -- less than a week after her grandfather's death. Less than two days after his body transmuted to ash and flame on the pyre, dead, bloodless hands carefully wrapped around his ancient spear: unused for twenty years, its ribbons faded, but its blade kept sharp as his mind, strong enough to cut bone.

She wondered what her mother's purpose was. Under her artfully arranged braids and delicate cosmetics, Zardis Tarkheena's face wore an expression of polite interest, no more. But that meant nothing. Like her father, Zardis showed only what she wished.

Shezan had come to the lattice room specifically to avoid conversation. The dim shadows cast by the intricate interlaced stone walls and dome suited her mood, and she had vague memories of playing here with Rabadash when they were very young, before Prince Udrilar had driven Rishti Tisroc out of Tashbaan for five long years. Her grandmother had told them stories here where they were shaded from the drowsy heat of high summer. She thought perhaps her grandfather had sat beside them on the tiled floor once, listening with rapt attention, and poured them lemon water kept cool with precious ice.

But that was then, this was now, and her mother had asked a question. "He has offered," she said, sitting up straighter in her padded chair.

"And have you accepted?"

The cat batted its head against Shezan's palm, demanding. She scratched absently behind its ears, then under its chin, coaxing a ragged purr from its throat.

"I told him he had struck a poor bargain, and that perhaps in Narnia he might find a scent worth more than the glass that holds it," she said.

Her mother sat on the sofa across from Shezan, smoothed the wrinkles from her skirt with graceful ease. "Good," she said.

Shezan arranged her face into polite confusion. "O my mother, you are the fount of knowledge and the guide of my discretion. Please teach me to comprehend your meaning, that I might follow the path of wisdom."

"My father taught you too well, I sometimes think," Zardis said with a faint and fleeting smile. "How can one argue against such courtesy? But enough: I will speak plainly. Ilgamuth Tarkaan is sworn to your milk-brother by breath, blood, and name. He rises and falls with the prince's fortune, or at the prince's whim. But princes are not gods. They are men, and suffer all a man's mischances. Is it therefore wise to bind yourself twice over to the same hope of the future?"

Shezan was silent.

In the inner courtyard, the fountain laughed quietly to itself. A dust-brown cat flattened itself to the tiles of the footpath, then sprang toward a patch of purple flowers, bobbing in and out of the slanting afternoon sun. A songbird took hurried flight into a lemon tree, landing with a thump and rustle of leaves. The cat hissed, then curled its tail around its haunches and began to clean its paw, as if nothing had happened.

Zardis sighed. "The Tisroc, may he live forever, has many sons," she said.

"That is so," Shezan agreed, blandly turning aside the point.

A marmalade tabby padded into the room and leapt onto Zardis's lap. She bent her head, kissed its nose, and made little clicking noises with her tongue rather than restate her position.

The silence gathered weight, despite the burble of water and the distant, muffled sounds of the household preparing for the evening feast in honor of Axartha's memory.

He had died with honor, as he had lived: serving the lord to whom he had pledged himself by breath, blood, and name. The gods and all the honored dead had surely welcomed him to the heavens. This she knew. And yet, the knowing did not stop the grief.

She and her mother had so little family left.

Finally, Shezan conceded. "As the poet Ruza has said, 'In the desert, one spring means survival. Two springs means life.' But the sand and the wind are indifferent to human choices. Other humans are not. To drink from two springs may raise the ire of their guardians, each wondering why their water is not enough to slake one's thirst."

She wondered what Ilgamuth thought of Ruza. Perhaps she would ask, when he returned to Calormen.

"That is so. And yet, to drink from two springs may also bring their guardians closer together, O my daughter," Zardis said, "as they come to see that they may guard each other from the raiders of the barren sands."

Shezan sighed in turn. "O my mother and O the sun in my sky, I will also speak plainly. It is true that Rabadash is far from perfect. It is true that the succession is never sure. And yet, he is my milk-brother, and I trust that one day he will rule Calormen in accordance with the will of the gods. That is my choice. Ilgamuth is also my choice. Even my grandfather, may the gods receive his soul with honor, would not have begrudged me that."

"My father, may his memory be a light to the world, was not all-knowing," Zardis said, each word careful and precise. "He made his own choices, before either you or I were born. To consider his life ill-spent would have been too great a blow, and so, I think, at some times, in some ways, he chose not to see."

"That is human," Shezan said as the gray cat batted away her hand and began to groom its tail. "No man is without flaws."

Zardis tipped her hand, conceding the point. "That is so. And yet, how can we claim to live with honor unless we seek to overcome that weakness in ourselves?"

The pattern was familiar, question and answer and question anew, ingrained beneath conscious thought as blood and bone underlay flesh. Shezan might have had this same conversation with her grandfather, had Azaroth not gathered him home.

The thought ached within her heart.

Then it sparked understanding.

She _would_ have had this same conversation with her grandfather, had he lived. Whether he approved her choice or not, he would have feinted and probed until he was satisfied that she was certain in her choice and her understanding of its consequences. And while it was true he had taught Shezan the art of logic and the dance of honor and reputation, he had taught her mother first.

"How can we live with honor unless we stand firm behind our choices?" Shezan said. "O my mother, I have chosen Rabadash as my prince and Ilgamuth as my partner. I chose with open eyes. I will keep faith with them."

The gray cat stretched and leapt from her lap to the back of her chair, and from there to the niche in the wall that would hold a lamp come twilight.

"You are certain?" Zardis asked as the marmalade tabby in her own lap stood and mewed at its cousin.

"Yes."

Zardis sighed. "Well. I cannot say the match is one I had considered, let alone one I had hoped for, but you know your mind and heart and even if Rabadash should fall, Achadith and her temple may offer you a shield. That is more than many can claim, as is the freedom to open the dance rather than have a man offer gifts unasked for."

"That is so," Shezan said, then paused. She had wondered, now and again, ever since her mother had braided white ribbons into her hair and walked beside her all the way into Achadith's temple when Shezan had refused her betrothal and pledged her life to the goddess, precisely who had decided Dinar Tarkaan was a suitable husband, and why her mother had returned to Tashbaan after his death rather than stay amongst his cousins.

It was too late to ask her grandfather.

She met her mother's eyes across the room, wondered how to phrase the question.

Zardis stood abruptly, scooping the marmalade tabby into her arms. "I am glad for your sake, O my daughter. When he returns from Narnia, please extend the courtesy of my house to Ilgamuth Tarkaan, provided his second gift has more merit than the first. And now, alas, I must take my leave, for a household does not manage itself. I expect you in the pomegranate room at the twelfth hour. You will, of course, offer the blessing."

"I will," Shezan agreed. "O my mother--"

Her mother cut her off before she could move to words of substance. "Truly, family is a blessing, as is honor in all its forms. So my father taught, and in this he was not mistaken. I am glad beyond words to still have you with me in this world, O my daughter and O the delight of my heart, and I look forward to many fruitful years to come."

Zardis swept out of the lattice room into the clear, hard light of the sun, her shadow streaming dark behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> This is not remotely a 15-minute fic in terms of writing time, but it was inspired by the word in question so I figured I'd tag it by origin rather than writing speed. Also, the title is a line from _"I saw thee, child, one summer's day,"_ which is a poem by Emily Brontë. The poem is gloomier than this fic, and not exactly thematically relevant -- it's about the moment in childhood when you suddenly realize the inevitability of death -- but I liked the general sense of foreboding in that line, and the way it can, in context of this story, suggest past generations casting their shadow over their descendants.


End file.
